


Blood Is Thicker Than Water

by kissmebloody



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Domestic Violence, Feels, Pain, Pre-Canon, Sam leaving for Stanford, everything hurts are you kidding omigod, undercurrents of child abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-28
Updated: 2014-02-28
Packaged: 2018-01-14 01:41:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1248001
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kissmebloody/pseuds/kissmebloody
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i> The blood of the Covenant is thicker than the water of the womb</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blood Is Thicker Than Water

**Author's Note:**

> in all seriousness my Beta said ow too
> 
> also shout of to my Beta my lovely lovely girlfriend Ellie who's tumblr I forgot 
> 
> and come check out my tumblr right over at http://Luci-Goosey-Caboosey.tumblr.com for more feels but mostly porn

A sharp noise shot through the dingy apartment. A crack of skin on skin, not even a breath was heard over it and its eerie silence.

Sam Winchester was taller than his father at 18, skinny but thick with lean, hard earned muscle and legs gone for miles. His face was turned toward the wall, a blank look in the ever-changing hazel eyes and a red mark the size of a palm beginning to brighten and smart on his cheek.

John Winchester stood there, his eyes filled with rage and a bottle broken by his feet where he’d slammed it down when his youngest had told him some incredible news; his right hand was raised menacingly, as if poised for another blow.

 _“I’ve got a free ride to Stanford Dad; I’m leaving in the morning for Palo Alto.”_ Is what Sam had said when he came out of his shared room with Dean when their dad had roused from the drunken stupor that afternoon.

Now they stood like this, John in front of the door, the bottle he’d clutched now shattered with its spirits seeping into the disgusting carpet and turning already brown spots black. Sam was straight standing, holding himself to his full height and breathing evenly. There was tautness to his shoulders that told of a hidden malice, of a rage never let go. The middle Winchester, Dean, stood behind Sam with his green eyes huge, only twenty-two and too old for his years but those big green eyes would never change.

“Sam.” Came out of Dean’s mouth and not Johns, the noise sounded betrayed. Dean wasn’t entirely sure he was even making it, his mouth was numb from the news he’d never and always wanted to hear.

Those hazel eyes, however, were now trained on him with a cold stare, not a glare, no; a stare so vicious it should have belonged to a dragon protecting its treasure. _Minedon’tyoutakethisfrommeit’sallIhave._

“Don’t.” And another blow came, John’s left hand had recovered its mobility and smacked Sam’s head to the other side, another smarting mark appearing rapidly on that summer tanned skin.

“Don’t you even try talking back to him.” And the cold stare was now trained on the cause, on John Winchester’s red, ballooned face so full of rage and betrayal and hate. Sam wanted to cry, wanted to scream and yell and kick at his father to _be proud of me for once in your life, be proud of me for anything other than shooting straight._

“You don’t have the right to tell me if I shouldn’t stand up to my brother.” It was the first thing Sam had said, and it was cold and small. It was not strong in voice, but it also did not waver; steady.

“Oh yes I do. You’re my son, and I’ve got every right to beat that ass and make you show some goddamned respect for your brother and me.” The only emotion shown throughout this conversation made itself known on Sam’s face. It was a twist of lips and eyebrows raised, a sneer that contorted such constantly sweet features.

“Blood is thicker than water.” Sam said vehemently. The long, spindly fingers Dean had always commented on being fit for the piano rubbed against the slapped skin of his cheek, colour was rushing high and a purpling bruise was already forming on the bone.

John looked flustered; there was no correlation between the phrase he’d tried to instill in his boys and the conversation at hand.

But maybe it wasn’t so much a conversation as it was a war being fought on flat land in trenches, each side dodging up to shoot then hiding back in the dug-out earth.

“You don’t actually know what that means do you?” Sam let the cool back of his hand sooth his left cheek, the red skin now throbbing. “You and Dean both, you think it means family ties and obligations are stronger in meaning than friendships and the outside world—” He switched hands and now was soothing the right cheek. “—but it doesn’t. Do you know what the full phrase is? _‘The Blood of the Covenant is thicker than the water of the womb.’_ ”

John was starting to deflate; his eyes were starting to turn desperate in their anger while his hands shook by his sides.

Sam took the opportunity.

“I’m my own, free person, and you are a piece of shit for a father.” Sam was now clenching his left hand into a fist, always leaning on it as a dominant piece of protection and distraction. “I don’t know where you thought you went right in raising me— _us_ —but it sure wasn’t anywhere obvious to me. You taught me family is everything, that I owe it to my family, that I need to protect the world around me _for my family_ while _dying_ for them when they’ve done shit for me.” Sam took a deep breath, trying to steady himself, about to go on, but there was an all too familiar hand on his shoulder whirling him around to face those big, desperate green eyes.

Next thing Sam was actually aware of was that he was holding his nose while blood spluttered down his t-shirt and moldy couch. He was leaning heavily on it because of the weight of Dean’s punch.

“You know _exactly_ ; why we do this Sam!” He was pissed, oh so pissed and god did Sam want to say he was sorry, he wanted to feel bad for hurting Dean like he knew he did. But he couldn’t. 

Not on this.

“Really?” Sam wasn’t caring whether there was blood all over the carpet now, or if he looked crazed and pale, he couldn’t care less if he passed out from blood loss and he was hauled off to the next hunt against his will.

This time he might actually have the balls to call the police when he wakes up in a foreign motel room two states over.

“I might _know_ what we’re doing this for—“ Sam was swaying precariously and propped an arm on the couch, glaring at Dean with every ounce of pent up frustration he could muster. “—but do you think I actually _care?_ ” An intake of breath came from the two opposite parties from Sam. “I never knew her. I was _six months old_ when that fire happened, when that Demon killed her. “He was now turned to John once more. “And yeah, living without her has sucked all kinds of ass because you couldn’t parent a fucking flower if you tried.

“But guess what? I could care fucking less if you ever kill this demon, because you can do it on your own, killing yourself with bottle after bottle of jack while I’m away from all this shit, making a home for myself. So go ahead and adopt chain smoking while you’re at it, I don’t care!” Sam threw his hands in the air. “I’m going to be _safe_ with an honest job and a fucking picket fence!”

Sam’s face was nearly as red as John’s had been when he stopped yelling. All that anger, all that frustration and hurt and the cloying _painwhereareyoudadyousaidyou’dbehomeI’mscared_ came out and was thrown out into the wind only to smack the eldest Winchester right in the face.

Well it didn’t keep him down.

John moved quickly for a man with a beer gut and thick legs and arms. He was in and out of Sam and Dean’s shared bedroom within two minutes of unearthly silence and was throwing Sam’s already packed army green duffle bag at his head.

“If you’re gonna leave then go.” John was obviously hurt, but that and anger was all there was in his voice and eyes. There was no pride or love or even the smallest bit of _joy_ ; there wasn’t a sliver of anything that Sam had minutely hoped there could ever be.

Sam was slightly hurt that there wasn’t more of a fight, but he gave it up and grabbed the handle on the duffle, his jacket was at the door on a chair and he’d get it on his way out.

“Fine.”

And that’s how he ended up walking his way three miles to the Greyhound depot, his father’s spitting calls of _if you walk out that door don’t you ever come back! __in his ears the whole trip, nothing to stop the self-loathing and the waves of guilt and selfishness that Sam had tried so hard to keep at bay._

He wasn’t hurt that John had ‘kicked him out’. No, not at all. But Dean, Dean hadn’t helped him, hadn’t realized that John had been horrible to them and that hunting _wasn’t their job._ That’s all he had wanted, was the support of his brother, of his stupid, loving, amazing older brother.

Now he had nothing but the clothes he carried, a reset broken nose, and his acceptance letter to Stanford.


End file.
